


Something Sacred

by aronnaxs



Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas, d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-16
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 00:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1622528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aronnaxs/pseuds/aronnaxs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>/or, Five Times d'Artagnan Called for Athos and One Time Athos Called for d'Artagnan/</p><p>Out of all the musketeers, it is Athos who d'Artagnan feels the strongest bond with. [book verse]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Grand Choice

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first three musketeers fanfic (and my first fanfic outside of Tolkien for ages!) but I thought I'd give it a go as I'm in love with the book. And find myself shipping Athos and d'Artagnan at a ridiculous intensity xD 
> 
> This is more book verse instead of bbc series verse as I haven't seen the tv series hehe... :)
> 
> Translations (at least I hope this is what the poor French in this story means):
> 
> Jeune Gascon - young Gascon

He has barely been two days in Paris but already d'Artagnan finds himself, sword in hand, caught up in the heat of battle. On one side stand three of the king's musketeers and on the other side the cardinal's musketeers, blue and red, all skilful, seasoned soldiers. D'Artagnan has admired these men for years, but now, there is no time to do so. Although he is a mere boy of 18 dwarfed amongst such talent, he duels for all he is worth, his youth putting vain confidence into his step. 

Mere seconds ago he has been a foe to the three king's musketeers, offending all of them in the space of a few minutes. They had come here to settle the score and d'Artagnan had been willing to die at such noble hands, if die he must, when the musketeers of the Red Duke had arrived. There was talk of breaking edicts and an argument had entailed. As so often arose between the two sets of warriors, hearty conflict erupted. Looking back on it later d'Artagnan will know that this was one of the turning points in his career: the king or the cardinal, the grand choice laid out so obviously before him.

Now, he fights beside the three men he previously drew his sword to. He knows they are unsure of such a young new boy yet with a throbbing heart, he endeavours to show them what he can do. Not one for cowardice, it is the mighty Jussac who he determines to take on. The older man does not anticipate what befalls him. What d'Artagnan lacks in experience he makes up for in spirit, and Jussac is forced to repeatedly turn as the Gascon circles him like a predator. When they clash swords, it is with a ruthless intensity: d'Artagnan in the excitement of combat and Jussac in the retaining of his honour against this youth. 

Maybe before Jussac knows it himself, d'Artagnan realises he has ensnared him. Soon, the musketeer begins to make mistakes in his desperate haste, and d'Artagnan smiles slyly, infuriating him further. He defends himself without stumbling once and sees the humiliation spread across his foe's countenance. They strive for only moments more until the withering of his pride overcomes Jussac. In one strike, d'Artagnan is able to drive him to the ground. He is insensible before he reaches it.

Again, it will only be later that the Gascon realises the full extent of what he has done here. Panting in the sheer warmth of the afternoon sun, he turns to his companions, still facing their own opponents. They are beautiful in their poise and combat, and he would have willingly watched them all day. But it is to Athos who his eyes are drawn more closely to. He recalls he is wounded, and in the fierce duel, he is becoming more and more pale. D'Artagnan feels himself gripped by a sudden horror, surprising in its passion. He cannot bear the thought of this brave man falling in front of him.

Such a proud creature would never ask for help but d'Artagnan cannot ignore the look he shoots his way. It speaks far louder than words. Before he can restrain himself, he cries in terror "Athos!" and feels the name vibrate upon his lips, as if it will have some great meaning in his future. In one bound, he is upon Cahusac, Athos' foe, and disarming him easily. Stunned, the man rushes for his sword only to have d'Artagnan, in his abrupt fervour for standing between him and Athos, reach it first. Obtaining one of his fallen company's swords is also no use as now, Athos rises again and stands alongside d'Artagnan. Staring at the dark-eyed pair before him, he soon meets the same fate as Jussac.

D'Artagnan is thoroughly breathless with ardour. Athos is in a similar state, but he wonders if that is from the wound that is obviously troubling him. He turns to him to offer more aid, already realising how much he would do for this relative stranger. Yet he is immediately struck by the fair manner the man still exudes even in this situation, upright and strong. To d'Artagnan's delight, he bows slightly to him. There is no hint of discomfort in his voice as he speaks. "I thank you, jeune Gascon," he utters. "You surprise me greatly."

"It is my pleasure, M. Athos," he replies, the name already engraved deeply within him. "I could not be deprived of such honourable company."

A small spark dances in Athos' eye in response to this compliment. He nods politely.

Within minutes, Aramis has also dealt with his opponents and Porthos' man has surrendered to them. D'Artagnan follows their lead as they politely salute him and aid him with carrying his wounded comrades to the nearby convent. 

They then stand before d'Artagnan, eyes fixed upon his young, flushed face. He expects some reprimand for his brashness, or even a continuation of the duel they were interrupted from. Yet, if he is truthful, he cannot face the thought of combatting these brave men now, not after having fought at their side. He feels awkward in front of these obviously inseparable friends, as if he has tried to break in on something sacred. It is all he can do to reach for his sword, about to salute them and simply leave. Before he can, Athos steps forward to him. The sight of a calm smile upon that handsome face stays his hand.

They do not say a word but they do not have to. In a gesture that means the world to the Gascon, he links an arm through his and places him amongst his two partners. Between Athos and the massive frame of Porthos, d'Artagnan walks with his new friends down the road, taking up the entire space of it. He cannot help from smiling. An hour ago he was without connections in the city, but now, he is the company of three of the greatest men in the world.


	2. Sweethearts by the Luxembourg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the kudos so far /blows kisses/

After first donning the uniform of M. des Essarts' guards, d'Artagnan does not return to his home upon the Rue de Fossoyeurs. He may have told Planchet that this is his intention but instead, he finds he is diverting his route down the Rue Ferou, one street away from his own dwelling. It is no mistake - although mere months have passed since he arrived in Paris, he could have already travelled these roads with his eyes closed, such is his frequency of pacing them. Instead, it is to a certain house that he walks, getting faster and livelier in the dizzy excitement these visits always give him.

The musketeers, who he has come to so idolise, meet at least three times or four times a day whenever they are free to see one another. D'Artagnan, although regretfully not a musketeer yet, is honoured to join them and happily adjusts his time to suit theirs. They have already met twice this day and have plans to search each other out later but d'Artagnan's youthful eager spirit has not allowed him to wait that long. Despite it not being what he desires, wearing the new uniform has again ignited in him that feverish yearning for company. He has never had friends like these three noble men before and so is inclined to share everything with them. It has not occurred to him to rein in the admiration he has for his new companions. 

Athos is the one who he seeks out the most. This is not merely because he lives the closest to d'Artagnan (or rather, d'Artagnan lives the closest to him) but because the young Gascon feels a certain bond with him, prevalent in the two duels they have already fought in; and where both have kept a particular eye on each other's where-a-bouts. He reminds him of a hero of old - chivalric, handsome and adept at many things he puts his intelligent mind to. More than anyone, it is Athos who d'Artagnan yearns to emulate, despite his secretive past. But this only makes the older man more alluring to the Gascon's curious intellect.

He soon is bounding up the stairs to the small apartment and heartily knocking on the door. Grimaud is generally very punctual with his greetings but that day, he is delayed, and d'Artagnan's knocks only get louder. As is his wont, he impatiently starts to call through the letterbox, making such a noise there is no doubt he must be heard. "Athos! Athos!" he says, the joy at pronouncing the name evident in his voice.

It is a matter of seconds before the door is opened and Grimaud stands there, silent as usual. D'Artagnan raises himself up, peering around into the room beyond. "Is M. Athos at home?" he asks tersely, knowing the advice Athos has given him about speaking to servants. It works, and Grimaud begins to make a sign, before Athos arrives himself. D'Artagnan's solemn appearance is immediately broken.

"M. d'Artagnan," he says and takes his hand, pressing it affectionately. The boy cannot conceal his smile. "To what do I owe this pleasure?" 

In answer, d'Artagnan steps around Grimaud and into the room, revealing the uniform of the guards he wears. Athos regards it quietly, countenance passing into one of those unreadable expressions he assumes so well. D'Artagnan stands mutely under this scrutiny, not having felt so nervous since waiting in the Louvre for an audience with the king. When Athos nods at him, however, he breathes a sigh of relief. "Very fine," he remarks. "You must feel obliged to show off so admirable a uniform."

D'Artagnan is about to express his indifference to the attire but then sees how Athos is offering him his arm. He cannot refuse. "Verily," he says instead and willingly passes his arm through Athos'.

They walk down from the apartment and onto the street in this fashion; one that is not peculiar to the musketeers. D'Artagnan regards it as friendly and intimate, a symbol of their solidarity with each other. As with everything related to those three demigods amongst men, d'Artagnan is more than happy to partake in their customs. 

As they depart onto the Rue de Vaugirard, d'Artagnan turns to his companion and says, "it is not much, this uniform. I am honoured to be in M. des Essarts' guards, but I would rather be in a uniform given to me by M. de Treville. Although I would not look as comely in it as you," he adds with a coy smile. "Or Aramis. Or Porthos."

Athos shakes his head at him to brush off the compliment. "I have faith in you, d'Artagnan. Young men like you tend to get their way."

D'Artagnan feels his cheeks colour slightly at the words. He dips his head in thanks.

Athos falls silent also and together, they walk towards the Luxembourg gardens, the scent of the flowers becoming sweeter and sweeter the nearer they get. D'Artagnan looks out over the beautiful sight, colours rich in the golden evening light. Lovers pass by them, basking in the last rays of the sun, strolling, conversing, laughing in each other's company. He admires them joyfully, giddiness in his heart. His naive youth makes him feel intoxicated with the thought of love, and all the delights that come with it. He pines for it dreadfully.

Athos is far more morose and cynical about the idea, for what reason d'Artagnan is yet to ascertain. As if to distract him, he squeezes a little upon his arm and increases his pace, taking him away from these fair scenes. D'Artagnan is almost amused at it. Yet before he can utter anything, Athos lowers his head to him and rapidly changes the subject upon the young Gascon's mind. "When you come to my door," he says, the tone of his voice receiving d'Artagnan's full attention now. "You must not call my name so loudly. You make quite the din."

D'Artagnan cannot help smiling, despite the point he can see Athos has. "But I am very proud to let others know that you are my friend," he replies lightly. Athos raises an eyebrow.

"There may be a day when you regret saying that," he remarks. D'Artagnan is surprised and somewhat concerned to hear the seriousness of his words. He continues to smile though, thinking it must be Athos' odd sense of humour. 

"Never."

Athos does not acknowledge this and once again, d'Artagnan is bemused by his mood. He is unpredictable and unfathomable; as soon as he thinks he has figured him out, something else arises that throws him into confusion. He has no clue what to make of these latest comments but still, as they move into denser crowds near the Luxembourg, he leans closer to Athos and drops his voice to a confidential murmur. Their words do not become any more private, yet the boy soon discovers he enjoys appearing as though he is sharing secret information with such a revered individual. And, every time he turns to Athos, reaching for his ear, his loosely tied curls will brush against his mouth, and his stomach will flutter in response. He tries to ignore the feeling.

But even as they pass onto quieter roads, he still bends close to speak to him, nearer each time, hand coming to affectionately rest upon his arm. His heart can only quiver when Athos also keeps up the charade, whispering quietly into his hair. For these reasons, it takes him far longer than it should to realise that they are taking a lengthier route back. The easiest way would have been to return down past the gardens but Athos is guiding him up the Rue de Tournon and across to the charming little St Sulpier. D'Artagnan does not mutter a word about the decision, though thinks it must have something to do with sweethearts by the Luxembourg.

By the time they have reached the turning to the Rue Ferou, d'Artagnan has almost entirely forgotten why they left in the first place. It is only when Athos mentions something about his clothes that he happens to catch his reflection in a window and sees he is still wearing the guards uniform. Next to the musketeer, he simultaneously does not feel so downbeat about it, but also quite inadequate to compare himself alongside such a creature of beauty. He tears his eyes away.

"Maybe this walk has changed my perception of it," he says slowly, unsure of what Athos has asked him. His companion smiles drily, and they begin the last leg of their journey down the road. 

When they again return before Athos' apartment, he invites him inside to wait for Porthos and Aramis' arrival. D'Artagnan is about to accept when he feels the trembling in his arm and hands where he has been pressed against Athos. His heart palpitates in fretful indecision. Before he knows what he is doing, he is declining and excusing himself, beginning to part from his companion. Athos can only stare after him. But, as soon as he is out of sight, he starts to hurry, as though he can run from his thoughts. Or the lonesome pining where Athos' warmth once was.


	3. The Breaking Light of Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the feedback so far /hugs you all/

Sitting outside the sign of the Golden Lily at Amiens, d'Artagnan's eyes itch with unshakeable fatigue. He feels himself swaying upon his horse, the world blurring every time his head droops wearily forward. The night that has just passed has not been peaceful; he still can feel it pulling at him. Five hours of tossing and turning in a fretful sleep, only to be jostled from it by imaginary sounds outside the window. No part of him feels as rested as it should be, especially for the long journey still ahead.

The thought of such an important mission with his three friends had intoxicated him to begin with. The quest is adventurous, romantic, fraught with secrecy and possible danger. Everything his young soul craves. He had thought he, Athos, Aramis and Porthos would overcome any odds thrown their way, cross to England as they were ordered, retrieve the diamonds so essential to the queen, and return as heroes. Now, trembling and half-unconscious in the saddle, he does not feel very noble at all. Aramis and Porthos have been left behind, incapacitated at different road stops, and fortune seems as though it is turning against them. D'Artagnan wishes to get away from this inn as hastily as possible.

He is not sure whether it is his tiredness speaking, or something else, but their spell of bad luck is beginning to appear less and less random as time goes on.

He vaguely remembers entertaining such sombre thoughts in the darkness of the early hours. Refusing the innkeeper's suggestion of separated rooms, he and Athos had opted for sleeping upon mattresses in the large common area. They had taken to the floor, Planchet guarding the door and Grimaud guarding the stables, and the hours had dragged on. D'Artagnan had stared mournfully into the darkness looming above him, wondering what he had caught himself up in. For some inexplicable reason, he felt what he was doing would stretch far beyond a simple recovery of jewellery. Some darker, twisted threads seemed to be mixed up in this patchwork. 

In the breaking light of dawn, he thoroughly regrets the time spent on his nightly wonderings. He is aching all over. He can barely see straight. It is only the idea of Athos still by his side that forces him to keep going. Paris is far behind and desperately remote. The morality of the diamonds, and the aid they will bring the queen, threatens to be lost in his hazy exhaustion. But Athos is real and near. He stands by him. He whispers to him in the night to rest. He never shows any sign of weakness or irresolution. D'Artagnan is glad the older man is still his companion, so many miles from the city, and with Porthos and Aramis lost in their travels.

He waits for him now, the bitter early morning chills biting beneath his cloak. Athos will settle their payment and then they will ride, hopefully finding the sun along the way. There are still hours to go before the sea.

The horse beneath him is beginning to become impatient. She stamps her feet, crunching on the frosty grass, and tosses her head back and forward. Her quickened breath comes out as curling wisps of smoke in the cold air; D'Artagnan thinks she must be able to feel his tension. The sooner they leave, the better. 

But then beside him, Planchet's horse also starts to whine and shake. Granted, they have not had an easy morning, awakened by the scuffle which has led to poor Grimaud being knocked unconscious, but they are hardy horses; they can bear more than that. Instinctively, d'Artagnan reaches for his sword, glancing meaningfully at Planchet. He silently wills Athos to emerge quickly from the inn.

But he never comes.

Suddenly, a sickening crashing erupts from the building to which Athos has gone. The sound of muffled yells and breaking furniture splits the eerie stillness outside, sending d'Artagnan's heart to his throat. In a rush, his weariness vanishes. He leaps from his horse, sword already unsheathed, and dashes to the door. To his horror, he can hear the distinctive clashing of blades; many of them. 

Yet, before he can come to his friend's aid, Athos' voice, heaving with fury and desperation, cries out to him. He stops in his tracks. "I am taken, d'Artagnan!" he shouts. The words bring the chill back to the Gascon's bones. "Go on forward! Spur, spur!" 

D'Artagnan knows he must obey, but he cannot move. He listens fearfully to the tumult just a short run away, almost chokes as two gunshots are fired. "Athos!" he screams with equal ire. He does not respond. "Athos!"

But then Planchet is beside him with his horse, urging him onwards. "Monsieur, we must fly," he pleads. "We must reach the coast."

D'Artagnan turns passionate, wide eyes upon him, torn mercilessly by two paths. "I cannot leave without him," he finds himself saying emotionally. 

"Monsieur." The reins are thrown his way. D'Artagnan can do nothing but grasp them and climb back astride his horse. His heart feels so heavy, he is surprised she can hold him up. 

With the sound of the battle still raging behind them, they turn and gallop off down the road to Calais. D'Artagnan does not stop glancing over his shoulder until the inn is out of sight. "Did you see what became of him?" he asks finally, even though Planchet had been beside him all the time. Still, he glances knowingly at him. 

"It seems M. Athos killed one with his pistol and resorted to his sword with the others," Planchet replies. D'Artagnan cannot tell if this is a lie for his sake or not. He decides to accept it anyway.

"Brave Athos," he murmurs. "It pains me to - to -" He cannot bring himself to say 'leave him'.

Planchet watches him, as if understanding some profound meaning behind d'Artagnan's laments. "We will find him again, monsieur," he assures him. "Just as we shall find messieurs Porthos and Aramis." 

D'Artagnan nods, not wanting to appear weak in front of his servant. He straightens his back and tightens his hold on the reins, looking forward along the road. "Yes," he says firmly. "We shall." He takes a deep breath, feigning that Athos is not still on his mind. The forced strength wavers dangerously in his voice. "Now, onward to England."

And together they advance, leaving the inn far behind them. D'Artagnan tries to remain hopeful but the world is still blurred and his body still aches; yet now for a different reason than mere fatigue.

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback always appreciated :)


End file.
